


Sick Sense of Humor

by sophie_grey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Body Shots, Kissing, M/M, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie_grey/pseuds/sophie_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Misha and Jared do body shots as a joke that isn't very funny at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Sense of Humor

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a kink-meme prompt: "Jared/Misha, body shots, exhibitionism -- They get a little carried away with themselves." I may or may not come back and add more to this story (read as: where is the porn?)

 It was a joke. Or, it was meant to be a joke.

Tracing his steps, trying to riddle out how he got from point a to point b, Misha remembers the thick line of salt on Jared's forearm. There is nothing particularly sexy about a forearm. Not really. That's why it was a joke. He remembers the laughter ringing in his ears and the briny overload on the flat of his tongue. He remembers the setup: the tangy, fluorescent shot, a Frankenstein concoction of liquor and bad judgment. And then he remembers carefully removing a lime wedge from Jared's mouth with just his teeth. Their lips never touched, it wasn't a kiss. It was a joke.

Everybody had laughed.

But that was kid stuff so they had to do better than that.

Seeing and raising, Misha smeared some of the salt on his neck, a haphazard trail that scaled along his jawline and stopped just below his ear.

Their audience went into hysterics and clapped and egged them on. Jensen was roaring with laughter in the background, and could heard chanting alongside Cliff and a few others, an age-old juvenile psalm of 'Do it! Do it! Do it!'

Jared was chuckling and it rumbled through Misha's ears, seeped down and made a home somewhere deep inside his chest. And then Jared's tongue was wet and warm and nice on his neck, sucking every last grain of salt away before planting an unnecessary kiss on his ear. Misha vaguely remembers watching Jared do the shot as he tucked the lime into his mouth, a little too close to be gotten at with just teeth.

It was a joke, but there was nothing funny about the way Jared used his tongue to scoop out the lime, the way he pried it from Misha's lips with a moan – thankfully lost amongst the music and amused babble of their friends, their coworkers.

And so now, Misha is watching, fixated, as Jared ups the ante, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. It isn't so much striptease as it is Jared being drunk and clumsy, but there's an endearing sexiness to it and Misha has to fight with himself not to dive in and help. But when Jared doesn't stop halfway, exposes his chest but keeps on going, Misha finally realizes how fucked he really is. 'Fucked' being the operative word here, his brain and his dick seem to disagree about its context.

For Misha, the world goes silent. Sound condenses itself until it's little else but sensation. It's almost easy to forget where he is and who he is with, the way the lights blur his peripheral vision. His head is flooded and yet clear, like an altered state of consciousness, and suddenly everyone and everything is reduced to slow motion, and Misha has time. He doesn't need to think, because he has time.

It was supposed to be a joke.

It's like he's watching it happen to someone else on TV: Misha crouches down until he's level with Jared's absurdly large belt buckle and holds onto his hips because alcohol has a funny way of testing your balance at the worst of times. And there is giggling and laughing and elongated 'oh'ing as the bystanders determine that Misha licking salt out of the crevices of Jared's washboard is still a joke.

The big, hard punchline in Jared's jeans seems to be taking things pretty seriously, though.

Misha slams down two more shots before he finds himself standing on his toes to receive his citrusy reward, and all that licking and sucking and laughing and liquor must've gone to his head because he's swimming in the taste of lime and salt and Jared and Cuervo – in fact, he's drowning in it, drowning in what feels like an incredibly sensual, incredibly hungry, incredibly sloppy kiss. And where is the lime? It's disappeared, dropped between them on the floor somewhere and Misha is vaguely aware of the eyes that are glued to them.

This little joy ride feels like it's about to become the pileup of the century, but when it's over, it's still just a joke. There will be teasing and cell-phone pictures for days.

The thing about jokes, though, is that they all have some truth hidden inside of them.

In the end, though, it's still just a joke.


End file.
